Watch Out For Snakes!
by TheRockNRollBeauty
Summary: Russia and America go camping in the Anza Borrego desert. Fluff/Space Race reminiscing ensues. RussAme.


**Here's the fluff I promised! I figure I should post it since I have ten different kinds of angst and gory disturbing shit lined up. Damn this pairing for making me have to decide between writing creepy and cute things!**

**I just love the idea of Alfred being out in the wilderness, I think he still has a bit of that rugged side to him anyway! Besides, no one thinks about it, but deserts (especially the ones in Cali) can be totally pretty and romantic and such. **

**Anyway, camping! I used Anza Borrego as a backdrop because I've gone camping there hundreds of times with my dad and my family, so I know it pretty well. You gotta love SoCal, where the beach, the snow, and the desert are all within about three to four hours from each other. **

**(Also, a Dutch Oven here means the actual fucking cooking pot, not the…other thing.)**

**If anyone gets what the title is based on I will love you forever and have your adopted babies.**

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Russia was not used to the heat.

Initially, upon starting their hike up the desert mountain, Russia had a light jacket on, figuring that the cool tundras of Siberian would protect him against the glaring heat of Alfred's California deserts.

By now he had stripped down to his pants and a thin white shirt, having unfortunately underestimated the effect the dry heat would have on him. Although his core temperature kept his body heat down and prevent him from overheating, the experience was still uncomfortable, especially when coupled with the packs filled with bedrolls, supplies, and metal canteens filled with water slung over his back.

Meanwhile, the American in front of him was bobbing along thoroughly unaffected by the sun and heat, even as he carried nearly twenty pounds of food and cookware on his tanned, muscular shoulders.

Ivan's tongue felt like sandpaper, so he stopped momentarily to loosen one of the canteens from the bundle on his back and unscrew the top, tipping the contents down his throat. When he lowered it, he found himself greeted with the blue eyes and and tanned, freckled face of Alfred Jones.

"You all right, big guy?" He smiled cheekily and prodded the Russian's nose. "Wanna take a break?" His amused, mocking tone was obvious to Russia, who grabbed the wagging finger in front of his face.

"_Nyet_. The only time that I will be stopping is when I pick you up to toss you off the mountain, if you continue mocking me, _da_?"

America pulled his finger away and gently rubbed it.

"I can't help it if you're fucking cold blooded or something, Vanya."

"I am no reptile, little one. I am simply not used to such heat, but I will surely be able to cope with it."

Satisfied with his moment of teasing the normally stoic and unfazed Russian, Alfred shifts the weight on his back and and turns to resume his fast pace up the rugged terrain.

"Well, come on then! The top's not too far away, I swear!"

As always, the American was prone to stretching the truth. The trek to the summit took them at least another three hours. By this point, the sun was already beginning to descend towards the crown of mountains in the distance, the coolness feeding Ivan's strength and endurance. He was keeping pace with the American quite easily when the two finally reached the top.

Once they did, Alfred wasted no time in throwing down his load and "wooping" loudly in triumph.

"All right! We did it, Vanya."

Ivan smiled at the boy's exuberance and set his load down with far more care than the American had.

"_Da_, we did little one."

Russia admire the sight, the dusky purple of the fading sky with the almost silhouetted mountains tinged with the dust kicked up by the winds. The bright circle of moon was rising opposite the mellow red glow of the setting sun. And in the middle of it all, a bright young man with tanned skin and gold hair tousled in breeze and blue eyes that sparkled even in the lack of sunlight.

Said young man was now bounding towards the Russian, tackling him in a crushing bear hug, face suddenly serious as he looked up, and Ivan wondered if Alfred was going to have one of his unusually insightful moments, perhaps thanking Ivan for hiking hours through the intense heat so Alfred could live out his fantasy of camping on a desert mountain under the open sky_—_

"I am sooo hungry, dude. Like you don't even know."

_Typical_.

So Russia started up the fire and pulled the food out of the refrigerated packs with the full intent of taking charge of the cooking, though soon found that America was well versed in adapting to the big outdoors when it came to food preparation, and soon Ivan was ousted as the American poured over the iron cast pot_—_A "Dutch oven" Alfred had called it, making Ivan wonder if it was a gift from Netherlands_—_ settled on the glowing embers of the fire, stirring at the makeshift meat stew with a wooden spoon.

As he did, so, Russia set about unpacking the rest of their supplies, setting aside the canteens and bags containing bandages and first aid kits and taking the time to light the small butane lantern in the growing dark, before pulling out the blankets and bedrolls. It was then that Ivan noticed something was amiss.

"Alfred_—_" he turned to where his companion was poking at a piece of meat bobbing in the broth, trying to coerce it out of rawness.

"Yeah? What?"

Ivan hefted the rolled sleeping bag in his hand back and forth. Alfred looked up at him questioningly above his gold rimmed glasses.

"You have only packed one sleeping bag, _dorogoy_."

"Oh, yeah, right." Alfred looked down at the bubbling pot to avoid Ivan's gaze.

"W-well, I mean, we had already packed so much and I did't want you to carry too much and besides, I thought we could share." Alfred suddenly became much more interested in turning over each individual piece of meat with his spoon.

"Share?" The very thought made Ivan's cheeks flush.

"Yeah. I mean, its just like sharing a bed, right? No big deal. And besides, if you're with me than your creepiness'll scare away any snakes or things that might wanna crawl in with us."

Ivan thought the American might have been grasping for straws with that last comment, but he nodded anyway.

"Very, well, _dorogoy_."

Face still uncomfortably hot, Ivan unrolled the bedrolls and the single sleeping bag on a surface he found especially flat, setting down the folded blankets and soft pillow next to the bedding. Ivan noted with warm amusement that Alfred had tucked the fluffy stuffed rabbit toy that he had bought the American into the packed bedding, hidden perhaps in embarrassment that Ivan would find his childlike security blanket. With a touched smile he placed the toy under the folds of the sleeping bag.

The Russian got up and made his way to where the American was fishing out silverware and two metal bowls from the pack next to him. Ivan crouched down next to the American and watched him silently as he spooned the lumpy red-brown stew into the bowls, handing one to Ivan.

They sat quietly; America immediately digging into the food while Ivan delicately poked the lumpy broth before putting a tentative spoonful into his mouth. He hummed in pleasure.

"This is_—_ good, America. I would be thinking that England had corrupted you with his culinary atrocities."

"Naw, man. I may not be able to cook all the fancy shit that guys like Francis can, but I can work my magic when I've got a sturdy pot and the basics. You can't really go wrong with meat and potatoes."

"And where did you learn such things, little one?"

"Hello? I _did_ go through a cowboy phase in like the 19th century y'know."

"Ah, I see."

"Yeah, and then back in the 50s with Roy Rogers and stuff. And all those awesome movies that me and Feliciano did back in the 60s. Oh man! Awesome stuff."

"Yes, I am aware. I have dabbled in westerns as well, America."

"What? No_—_seriously?"

"_Da_."

"Dude! I never knew that Russia did cowboy movies! They aren't_—_they aren't all some giant metaphor for how great communism is and how much capitalism sucks, are they?"

"_Nyet, nyet,_ little one. There are some bits of propaganda but_—_let's_—_let's not talk about it, _da_?"

"Yeah, all right. 'Da' big guy."

Alfred went back to babbling about his westerns while Ivan listened quietly, smiling to himself every time the American gestured wildly, acting out his favorite scenes with youthful delight.

As America got up for a third helping of the stew, Ivan shifted over so that he was closer to where the American had been sitting. Ivan thought he had been quite discreet, but when Alfred turned around he gave the Russian a smug look and a cocky grin.

"Feelin' a little lonely, big guy?" Ivan merely patted the ground next to him. America obligingly sat down, scooting up alongside Ivan until their thighs rubbed together. Ivan smiled, setting down his bowl and letting his hand run along the American's dusty blue jeans, smoothing out the creases in the fabric. Alfred smiled around a spoonful of stew and wriggled at the touch.

Eventually, Ivan wormed his arms around Alfred's waist and began to pet his side, feeling the tone and curve of muscle under the thin wifebeater as the boy launched into a long list of his favorite movies that he was going to make Ivan watch once they got back to civilization, listing off his favorite actors and actresses and directors and the stories of the adventures he'd had on the set of his movies. Ivan found it pleasant to just listen to the American babble in that oblivious, adorable way of his, finding it to be a pleasant soundtrack to the surrounding quiet of the wilderness.

It didn't take long for Alfred to move on from the drained bowl of stew to rummaging through another one of their packs of foods, which the American had himself packed, pulling out two metal skewers and an overstuffed bag of fluffy white objects that Ivan could only assume were some kind of food.

Alfred gaped openly when Ivan told him that no, he'd never had a "marshmallow" before, and instantly set about teaching the Russian the proper technique when it came to roasting these confections over the open flame in order to achieve the perfect texture. After tasting a particularly torched and blackened one that Alfred had made for him, Ivan decided he preferred his only slightly golden brown, watching with amusement as Alfred consistently lit his on fire and pushed the burnt and sticky masses into his mouth. Ivan was sure how much he liked or understood this strange American tradition, but one thing he knew he did like was licking the sticky white goo from where it was smeared all over America's face.

An hour and an entire bag of marshmallows later Alfred stretched out his arms and let out a long yawn, rubbing at his eyes.

"Dude, I'm fucking exhausted. D'you know what time it is?"

Russia sighed and grabbed America's wrist, turning it over. Did Alfred forget he was wearing a watch?

"Eight thirty five, _dorogoy._"

"Shit. This _always_ happens when I go out desert camping. It seems like the sun always sets earlier, and there's no TV or video games to keep ya up all night either."

"True," Ivan runs his fingers through Alfred's blonde hair and gives him a playful scratch behind the ear, "But it is nice like this, _da_?"

"Dude, you don't even have to tell me how nice it is."

Another yawn surges through Alfred's body and slowly he disentangles himself from Ivan's embrace and stands up.

"Well, I think I'm gonna go to bed dude. The sun sets early so that means it rises even earlier. It's gonna probably get light around six or seven."

He leans over and ruffles the Russian's hair. "You comin' to bed, big guy?" Ivan jerks back and again seizes the American's wrist, teasingly tightening his grip with a half smile.

"_Nyet_, not yet Alfred. Go to sleep, I will put out the fire when I am done."

Alfred wriggled his arm until the Russian finally released his grip, giving the Russian one last sleepy grin before ducking out of the circle of fire and lantern light over to the designated sleeping area.

"All right then. Nighty night dude."

Ivan turns his head slightly so he can see America out of the corner of his eye, watching him bend down to unfold the blanket and wrap it around his body as he settles under the sleeping bag. With his darling now hidden from view by the lump of sleeping bag and blanket, Ivan averts his eyes and turns back towards the fire.

Ivan inhales the smoky scent of the smoldering wood, coupled with the lingering smells of cooked meat and burnt sweets, settled dust and clear night air. He tilts his head back and takes in the brilliant expanse of black and sparkling silver pinpricks above him. To be able to see the stars is quite an amazing feat. Only out in the most northerly wastes of Siberia had Ivan ever seen the skies this clear and the stars this vibrant. He hears Alfred turn in the rustle of sleeping bag behind him. _Stars__—__space. Stars, space, and Alfred. It all seemed so right._

Ivan got to his feet, stomping on the remaining embers of the fire and dousing the rest with a brief splash of water from a canteen, careful not to waste too much of the precious liquid. Finally, he crouched down next to the butane lantern and turned it off. Now devoid of any extra light, Ivan was entirely bathed in the dark and the soft blue light of the night.

He shuffled his way over to where the American was already curled up in his sleeping bag, facing away from Ivan as he slipped in next to him. Though Ivan had griped about the fact that Alfred had not brought them each a sleeping bag, he now appreciated the closeness that sharing brought them. He smiled and closed his eyes, turning his face towards America's back and mumbling a quick goodnight to Alfred, despite the fact that he was almost sure he was already asleep.

On the verge of dreaming he heard Alfred shift next to him, and then felt a warm, close breath glide over his face. His eye fluttered as he slowly reopened them, and found himself looking into pools of blue that sparkled in the light of the distant stars.

"I thought you had gone to sleep, _dorogoy_."

His heart grew incredibly warm as he saw the American clutching the small stuffed rabbit tightly in his arms. Alfred gave him a quirked, nervous smile.

"Funny, I thought you had too, dude."

A brief silence followed, with Ivan taking the opportunity to touch the American's face with a pale finger.

"Is something keeping you up, sunflower?"

Alfred bit his chapped lip briefly, before squirming closer to the Russian.

"Promise you won't laugh, okay?"

Ivan smiled and twirled a little piece of blonde hair between his fingers, delighting how the pale light of the moon made the American's hair look like spun platinum.

"I do promise you." Perhaps Alfred would speak to him about something important, in a burst of uncharacteristic eloquence that would complete this perfect moment.

"Okay, well, when I was planning this trip I went to the book store to read up more on this area, and I came across a book about Urban Legends and stuff_—_"

Ivan could barely suppress a sigh. _Oh. It was that kind of thing, wasn't it?_

"_—_And I knew I shouldn't have picked it up but normally those kind of books don't have-g-ghost stories and stuff so I thought I was cool. But then they had this page on this thing called 'The Ghost Ship of the Desert' that's supposed to be this giant ghost pirate ship that appears in the sky in the night_—_"

"Darling," Ivan placed a finger on his lips to quiet him, briefly allowing the silence to continue so they could both listen to the sounds around them, the quiet chirping of insects, the rustle of nearby shrubs, the distant hush of the wind sweeping down across the desert from beyond the mountains.

"Alfred, you should know more than anyone that the sky, space, the stars, it is nothing to be afraid of, yes?"

Ivan turned over onto his back, staring up at the dark canvas adorned with glitter above them.

"Will you come here, sunflower?"

Alfred scooted up closer, turning to lay his head against Ivan's chest so both were looking upwards at the sky. Ivan curled an arm about the other, stroking his shoulder.

"Are you seeing, _dorogoy_? No ghostly boats, no spirits. Only sky. Space."

"Space…" Alfred echoed, moving his body up until his head was nearly tucked under the Russian's chin.

Ivan allowed another stretch of silence to follow, counting the length of Alfred's breaths and wondering if the boy was about to fall asleep.

He heard Alfred softly sigh, so Ivan took the opportunity to break the quiet, gently prodding the American on the cheek.

"Are you still afraid?"

"Mmm. Not really. But maybe just a little. Ghost ships are pretty scary shit." He snuggled his body up closer and buried his face into his stuffed animal's soft fur. In turn, Ivan began to pet at his American's hair.

"I will tell you different stories then, yes? So you may think of them instead of silly legends."

He talked about the patterns in the sky, different than those America had probably heard of, patterns that Russia had identified himself back in the days before he was even Kievan Rus', when he would sit in the cold wilderness amidst the birch trees and look up and make stories out of the stars, captivating and fantastical tales that had never left him in all his years. Even when he laid bleeding in the trenches during the Great War he looked up and saw the great King of Swans flying freely from the spears of the Marauder and his tribe. And even when he stood on a balcony in Leningrad nursing a bruised cheekbone that his once upon a time enemy had given him he thought of the mighty snake twisting in the sky weaving itself amidst the heroes and princesses that always found ways to triumph and live happily ever after. Even now, lying in the middle of the desert with Alfred in his arms he recalled and recounted to his companion the tale of two lovers, the two brightest stars in the midnight sky, separated by a great milky belt, driven apart by fate with their arms always reaching for each other, suffering the punishment for a long forgotten crime. But all was not lost for the two lovers_—_as the world began to draw to its end, so did the wall separating the two, allowing their bright lights to cross the boundary to each other and become one with each other's warmth and strength, at the end of all things.

Ivan finished the story, momentarily stung with the nostalgia of the stories he had invented when he was still small and uncorrupted. For a moment he forgot Alfred, although he continued his absent minded stroking, only brought out of his reverie when he felt the American shift slightly.

Ivan wasn't sure if Alfred was still awake, but he did not mind as he began to speak again.

"I wonder, sunflower, you remember being up there, _da_?" He felt Alfred nod slightly. "I do as well. It is different seeing it up there than it is looking at it from down here. But strangely, it is also similar, _da_?"

He heard Alfred laugh softly.

"I guess, russki. But I think you're a lil' sleepy. You're all babbly and stuff."

"I cannot help it, sunflower. Lying with you in my arms, under the stars, the space we shared. It is making me feel such strange things."

Alfred shifted his head turning so he could look up at Ivan's face. The Russian tilted his head down and gave him a light smile.

"Good strange, right?"

Ivan's smile dulled as if regarding the other seriously, but his touch was loving as he curled a hand in Alfred's hair and pulled the American's chapped lips into a light kiss.

"_Da_."

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**I love the mythology/folklore of Southern California, **_**so much**_**. I love urban myths/legends as well, and my lovely state is choked full of them. The Ghost Ship of the Desert is supposedly a real thing, a ghostly legend based on a Spanish Galleon that was apparently washed up near the Salton Sea due to a giant flood, and, as I remember being scared of it when I went camping (back when I was little and afraid of ghosts) I thought it would be adorable if America read up on it and got scared as well. **

**The two things that Alfred is talking about are Roy Rogers, a singer and actor who popularized the "singing cowboy" archetype in the 40s and 50s, and the so called "spaghetti westerns," were westerns produced in the 1960s by Italians such as Sergio Leone, and often starring Hollywood actors like a young Clint Eastwood. And yes, Russia did make a fair amount of westerns in the 50s and 60s! There were two types, the so called "Red Westerns" which were a little more propagandistic, and the "Osterns" which were set in the Asian steppes of the USSR and dealt mostly with the events of the Revolution and the subsequent Civil War. Oh and Kievan Rus' was the kingdom that existed before the Russian Empire, so I figured that would be kind of a part of Ivan's younger years. **

**Also, Dutch ovens? Complete lifesavers on camping trips. My dad's majorly into cooking so he makes us like pineapple upside down cake and mac n cheese and all sorts of wonderful deliciousness out in the middle of the desert. **


End file.
